


reason gone west

by bloodandcream



Series: Ship all the Ships [146]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, M/M, Mild Smut, vague wincest pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-24
Updated: 2017-07-24
Packaged: 2018-12-06 04:49:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11593278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodandcream/pseuds/bloodandcream
Summary: “You look like her,” John says.





	reason gone west

Dean turns the water off, trickle dripping down from the shower head with an echoing plink in the tub. Running his hands through his hair, lingering, he watches the beaded water drip down mildew stained tiles. The cut in his side isn’t bleeding anymore. It’ll scab over, heal. No big deal.

Stepping out of the shower, he swipes the steam mist off the mirror. There’s a little stubble on his cheeks, not much, but his hair is getting long. Lighter in the summer from time in the sun, it flattens over his forehead looking almost blond. He needs a cut.

Wrapping a thin towel around his waist, Dean turns on the tap and finds his razor. In between the swish-swipe of it, he can hear Dad in the room, the glide of metal weapons being cleaned in near silence, the occasional rustle of papers.

Another hunt, another monster dead, and they’re on the opposite fucking side of the country from Sam.

Dean swears, sometimes, that Dad is keeping them east coast for a reason.

But he hears, too, the late night conversations when he’s supposed to be asleep, after Dad’s emptied the Wild Turkey and leans heavy against stained motel walls to speak in hushed voice into a burner cell receiver, at Sam. Never with, no, there’s no pause in conversation like he’s actually talking to someone.

Just at.

Dean doesn’t even have the balls to do that. Call Sam for no reason and say ‘hi’. Leave a voice message whether the twerp wants to talk or not. It’s been months since Dean’s even heard his voice, tinny and fake-cheerful, in a voicemail recording of ‘after the beep’.

The steam is warm in the bathroom, eases some of the tension out of his shoulders. Rinsing off his razor, scrape and rinse and scrape, Dean finishes and stands in front of the mirror. The white washed light of the main room still slants under the bathroom door. Scowling at himself, Dean unplugs the sink to drain. Rinses the short bristle hairs away. Hangs his towel against the back door.

Dad’s sitting on the edge of one of the beds, the other turned into the supply spread, guns opened their guts and sprawling as he cleans them.

Naked, Dean goes for his duffel and finds a pair of boxers. They had a good hunt. Hell, they’ve had a good run the past few weeks taking out a couple of spirits and a witch, but it’s always on to the next hunt. The next threat. No rest for the wicked, and the Winchesters are as wicked as they come.

Dad finishes reassembling the ivory handle Colt he’d given Dean years ago, sets it gently on the bed spread with the supplies.

Wetness dripping from his hair down the line of his spine, Dean shifts between the table and bed, the bathroom light still on behind him. He shoves dirty grave-mud stained jeans into his duffel bag. They’ll have to find a laundromat soon. The window is open to humid night air, but Dean closes the heavy curtains. Shuffles to the unoccupied bed. Sits on the edge and runs his fingers through too-long hair. He can smell it. The blood, still. The salt that lines the door and windows.

Dad taps a smooth glass bottle against his shoulder, and Dean takes it. Turns into it. Cheap whiskey that burns down his throat, but he doesn’t cough.

Shuffling silently over dirty carpet, Dad shuts the light out in the bathroom. The glow of the alarm clock and the faint insinuation of the red motel ‘vacancy’ sign against the cracks of the curtain give some kind of definition. Not much.

The other bed is spread with weapons, and Dean lays down on top of scratchy polyester. Heavily, John stretches out too. He has a careless way of breathing, when he’s had a little too much to drink. Dean wants more, but when he grabs the bottle off the nightstand, it’s empty.

The bed dips as John curls onto his side, one hand outreaching to tuck the hair past Dean’s ear.

It’s a soft thing, light muted in the room, edges going dimmer as the little whiskey he’s had sinks into his belly.

“You look like her,” John says.

Soft, quiet. Intrusive even here.

“Just like this, sometimes.”

Face to face in the darkness of a motel that will be left in the rear view mirror tomorrow, who’s name they will forget. Just like this.

Dean knows he does. Look like her. He has only one photo. But he’s shown it to Sam, and Sam will say the same. Just like this. Just when I want you to. You look like her.

A single nod, curving his cheek against callous palm, Dean doesn’t say anything. It’d make it worse. He eases closer, to the heat and weight and whiskey sour breath. If he closes his eyes it almost feels sweet. The flutter of lips against his forehead, the tip of his nose, one cheek then the other. His lips. Breathy and gentle and almost shy.

Almost.

Putting on boxers was pretty much a waste of time.

He doesn’t care. What John sees, what he wants. Because there’s an almost tender touch against him, the shivery plane of his stomach and the aching between his legs.

Does it matter, whose touch this is, when Dean thinks about his brother.

Quiet, halting breath and whiskey jerking touch, over the covers in the dim of the room that won’t remember them, he won’t remember, every place, every time, quiet, it’s good. God, it’s quiet.

Dean slinks away to a chair afterward. Pulls a pair of jeans on. Brings the empty bottle with him, an excuse. He falls asleep there, after hours, of looking and waiting and thinking.

They’re on the east coast, and his reason’s still gone far west.


End file.
